PB goes to Haiti

‘You have already had your Good Friday,’ Jefferts Schori tells Duracin

By Mary Frances Schjonberg, February 08, 2010

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[Episcopal News Service] Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori paid a poignant visit to Port-au-Prince Feb. 8 to survey with Episcopal Diocese of Haiti Bishop Jean Zaché Duracin the devastation wrought by the Jan. 12 magnitude 7.0 earthquake.

After climbing over the ruins of the diocese’s Cathédrale Sainte Trinité (Holy Trinity Cathedral), the presiding bishop turned to Duracin and said “You should skip Lent this year; you have already had your Good Friday.”

“Yes, we can all sing Alleluias together,” Duracin replied, according to the Rev. Lauren Stanley, who accompanied Jefferts Schori on her five-hour visit.

Pointing to some of the cathedral’s 13 bells that were visible among the ruins and that appeared to be salvageable, Jefferts Schori said “they will ring again” and that the cathedral “will rise again,” according to Stanley.

While at the cathedral, Jefferts Schori and Duracin said prayers at what the Haitian bishop is calling the diocese’s “open-air cathedral,” which consists of some plastic sheeting stretched over a frame of two-by-fours that shelters some pews rescued from the cathedral ruins.

The two bishops each prayed aloud with those who happened to be at the site. Some of the older women members of the cathedral were combing the ruins for pieces of the building’s world-famous murals depicting biblical stories in Haitian motifs. The gathered congregation also sang “How Great Thou Art” in French, Stanley said.

During the visit, Stanley said, Duracin asked her to “tell the world that physically the church is broken, but the church is still there in faith. Our faith is still strong.”

She said the bishop asked for the support of Episcopalians everywhere to help Haitians rebuild the structures of the church because that work “will have a positive impact on our faith. It will bring us courage, confidence and a good future.”

“We are approaching Lent,” Stanley quoted Duracin as saying. “I ask people to be with us in the desert so that on Easter, all of us in Haiti and all the Episcopal Church may sing together in joy: ‘Alleluia, Alleluia, the Lord is risen indeed.'”

The trip was also meant for Jefferts Schori and Duracin to talk about the immediate and future directions of the diocese. The presiding bishop assured Duracin that the entire Episcopal Church stood with his diocese in prayer and support, and would continue to do so, according to Stanley.

Stanley is one of four Episcopal Church missionaries assigned to Haiti and the only one who was not in-country at the time of the Jan. 12 quake. Duracin has asked Stanley to help the diocese coordinate offers of relief and recovery made by others in the Episcopal Church, and to tell the diocese’s story.

Stanley said part of the discussion in Port-au-Prince centered on how she can continue to assist Duracin and the diocese by splitting her time between Haiti and the U.S. As part of that work, she will begin to help coordinate the work of Episcopalians elsewhere in the church who have interests in or connections with specific places and ministries in Haiti, she said.

Stanley said she was gratified to hear Duracin’s confidence in her ability to help the diocese connect more strongly with “our partners who are working together to help God’s beloved children in Haiti.”

Stanley, who spoke with ENS by phone from Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, after the visit, said that Duracin wanted the presiding bishop to see the extent of the devastation the diocese suffered. While the full extent of damage is still being assessed, it is clear that most of the diocese’s churches and schools were destroyed or heavily damaged. The convent of the Sisters of St. Margaret, adjacent to the cathedral, was also destroyed.

The lost schools include the Holy Trinity complex of primary, music and trade schools next to the demolished diocesan cathedral, the university and the seminary. A portion of the St. Vincent School for Handicapped Children, also in the Haitian capital, collapsed. Students and possibly staff were killed at some of the schools.

Stanley said that Duracin, Jefferts Schori and she visited the Holy Trinity school complex, the Episcopal University and the survivors’ camp on a rocky field at College Ste. Pierre, a diocesan school destroyed by the quake. (The diocese, known locally as L’Eglise Episcopale d’Haiti, is caring for about 25,000 Haitians in roughly 20 makeshift camps around the country. Since the quake, many people have left the capital for the countryside.)

The three also surveyed Duracin’s home which collapsed in the quake, trapping and severely injuring his wife, Marie-Edithe. Duracin has told ENS that he is been spending his night sleeping in a tent outside another home that he was having built for his family.

The Rev. Kesner Ajax, head of the diocese’s Bishop Tharp Institute of Business and Technology (BTI) in Les Cayes, drove the three around the city. Everywhere they where they saw evidence of destruction and death, Stanley said.

The Holy Trinity music school once housed the country’s only concert hall, but now “you can see where it came smashing straight down and there are still bodies of our students in there as well,” Stanley said.

Duracin told them that “this is why we cannot just use a bulldozer” to clear the wreckage.

There is a common grave just outside of the Episcopal University and Stanley said they stopped to pray at that grave. One of the lower level classrooms that was destroyed usually had more than 100 students in it, she said, but only nine bodies have been found. People are going through the rubble by hand searching for the dead.

On the street outside the university, there is an outdoor holding cell for prisoners, Stanley said.

At the diocesan trade school, only the façade is still standing, Stanley said.

“There nothing left except bodies,” she said. “We could actually see one body at the ruins.”

Stanley said: “It was heart-wrenching to see the city that I love — to see the things that this church has done for so many years that makes me so proud to be an Episcopalian in Haiti — totally gone,” Stanley said. “It is beyond heart-breaking. I don’t have adequate words to describe the devastation.”

Jefferts Schori flew to Santo Domingo on Feb. 7 from Havana, Cuba, after being a co-consecrator at the Rev. Griselda Delgado Del Carpio’s consecration and ordination as bishop coadjutor of the Episcopal Church of Cuba. She and Stanley, who met her in the Dominican Republic capital, flew into Port-au-Prince the next day for the visit.

They brought with them a number of gifts and supplies for Duracin and the diocese, including six episcopal clergy shirts for the bishop that were a gift from the Church Pension Group, three liturgical stoles and 3,000 communion wafers from the presiding bishop, and pants and socks for Duracin and a bottle of Taylor tawny port communion wine from Stanley.

She also gave the bishop an alb and cincture that was purchased by Rhonda Busch, an administrator at Church of the Good Shepherd in Burke, Virginia. The church, where Stanley was priested and which still supports her missionary work, offered a requiem mass Feb. 4 for the victims of the earthquake who were members of the Church of St. James the Just in Pétionville, Haiti. Stanley serves the English-speaking congregation there.

“In our culture it is very important that the leader look like a leader,” Stanley said. “In the church in Haiti, it’s very important that the bishop look like the bishop because when he is properly dressed and properly vested then we know that he can take care of us and we know that we have not been forgotten.”

Duracin told Stanley that the bread and wine will be used Feb. 12 during the Episcopal Church’s part of the nationwide prayer services planned to mark the one month anniversary of the earthquake.

Stanley also brought with her a nearly 150-year-old brass cross that had once been part of a processional cross used by missionaries. She was given the cross by the Woodson family of Winston-Salem, North Carolina, whose members attend St. Paul’s Episcopal Church there. While looking through the rubble at College Ste. Pierre, Stanley said, the presiding bishop found a staff that might have been a short processional cross or a verger’s wand and which the three discovered fit the cross perfectly.

— The Rev. Mary Frances Schjonberg is national correspondent for the Episcopal News Service and editor of Episcopal News Monthly.


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Haiti video address

One week after the earthquake, I was in North Carolina and met with The Rt. Rev. Michael Curry, Bishop of North Carolina. This is the interview that Bishop Curry conducted and then showed at the Diocese of North Carolina’s Annual Convention.

Diocese of North Carolina

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My people will not be forgotten

On Wednesday, I said a Requiem Mass for 14 of my parishioners at St. Jacques le Juste in Petion Ville, Haiti, who died in the earthquake on 12 January. I still don’t know who they are; I know only that 14 people, with whom I celebrated the Eucharist and life every week, are gone. I have been living with this painful unknowing for more than a week now, ever since I learned of their deaths. I have been living with the grief of not knowing the fate of more than 125 other friends. Are they alive? Did they survive? Are they injured, lost, alone? The unknown is frightful place to be, and it is where I, and so very many others, have lived for three long weeks now.

When a dear friend, The Rev. Larry Packard, rector of Good Shepherd in Burke, Va., learned about my parishioners’ deaths, he immediately offered me the pulpit and table. “You need this,” he said. “You need to do a Requiem for your parishioners, even if you don’t know who they are.” I accepted, with a trembling heart. We planned it for Wednesday, at the regular noonday service. I knew about it all week. I knew I needed to put together the service, to choose the hymns and the lessons, to prepare a sermon.

But every time I thought about it, tears welled in my heart and in my eyes. I wanted to say this Mass. I wanted to honor those who have died. I wanted so very much to be faithful. But the pain of this loss seemed too great. So I would approach it in my heart, then back away, approach again, draw back again … Finally, on Tuesday night, I realized: I couldn’t draw back any more. It was time to enter into the grief fully.

My friend and assistant, Matthew Lukens, helped me choose the readings, the prayers, even the music. I wanted something simple, with readings that addressed the grief, hymns that praised the Lord, prayers that wrapped all of those who died in God’s loving arms. I wanted Isaiah’s comfort “for those who mourn;” Paul’s profound statement of faith that “nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus;” John’s promise of a better dwelling place for my people. I chose hymns we sing in French at St. Jacques le Juste: I come with joy to meet my Lord; Lord of all hopefulness, Lord of all joy; Humbly I adore thee.

Wednesday morning, it snowed in Northern Virginia. For a short time, I thought the service would be canceled, and a part of me drew back and said, “Good,” because I was afraid of this service, afraid of the pain. But then the sun came out and the snow started melting, I knew: We were going to pray for these people, for my people.

Taking my shower, I wept as the water splashed across my face. I begged God for the strength to do this, because even in my fear, I was determined – determined – that my friends, my people, were going to be honored. I may not know for whom I am praying, but God does. And God honors them. Ah, I thought, feeling a small sense of peace …

I changed the first reading to Ecclesiasticus: Let us now sing the praises of famous men … (who) made a name for themselves … Some of them have left behind a name, … but of others there is no memory; … But these also were godly men … their name lives on generation after generation. Even though I don’t know their names, God does, and their names live in God from generation to generation.

Almost as soon as I arrived at Good Shepherd for the service, I began to weep anew. Friends came and stood with me, hugging me quietly, sharing my pain, giving me strength. Standing at the back of the church, vested with a white stole, I sought comfort in the looming Good Shepherd stained-glass mosaic above the altar. This is the parish where I was ordained a priest, where I said my first Eucharist, where I baptized my first child, officiated at my first wedding, buried my first parishioner. At this altar, under this portrait of the loving God, I have found peace in the past, and I sought peace there this morning.

It was not an easy service. The readings pierced my heart, the hymns pierced my soul. I barely was able to read the Gospel; I wept throughout the sermon.

I don’t know, I said, if those we mourn this day are famous … was it Nancy, whose husband founded the symphony orchestra, or Ghislaine, who gave me my first French Bible, so that I could read the Gospel in French on Sundays? Or are those we mourn the little girls who helped me translate We Are Marching In The Light Of God into Creole, and then marched around the church with me, singing at the top of our lungs? I don’t know, I wept, but God does.

Paul got it right, I said. Every single Haitian I know is telling me: Nothing, not even this huge earthquake, can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. The faith is strong in Haiti, I said. I’ve never seen such a committed, joyful, open faith. The people know God has not abandoned them.

Most of my parishioners at St. Jacques are not poor, I said. But most of my friends on the street are. And those who died now have, for the first time in their lives, their own dwelling places, and they are magnificent places indeed. And I know that my friends, I said, are having one hell of a party in heaven right this second, secure in their new homes.

I had to stop numerous times. This wasn’t eloquence; it was, instead, heart-wrenching.  It was a cry from the depths of my soul for all the pain that has descended upon my adopted home of Haiti, for my adopted family there, for my friends, so many of whom are still missing to me, because I cannot locate them, have not heard from them. This was my way of honoring all that pain, of offering it up to God, because this pain is far too great a burden for me to carry alone.

I thanked all those who came to the service and told them: When I return to Haiti, I will celebrate another Requiem for my people there, and I will carry all of you with me in my heart, and at the table in the place where we became family, we will pray for our people, for our family, together. Thank you for being part of this pain.

After the prayers, we did the laying on of hands, Larry and I moving from parishioner to parishioner, saying the prayers over these hurting souls who needed healing for themselves. Afterward, I knelt in the same spot where I was ordained a priest in God’s one holy catholic apostolic church and wept again as all gathered around me to lay hands on and pray over me. At the peace, we all hugged, holding each other close, letting yet more tears fall.

The Eucharist was, I believe, the most intimate I ever have celebrated. I was surrounded by love and could feel the presence of those who, having reached the Omega of this life, have gone on to the Alpha of the rest of their lives. God’s marvelous peace, which indeed passes all understanding, embraced us.

For the past 12 years, ever since I was ordained, I have written the names of those whom I have buried in my Book of Common Prayer. Wednesday, I wrote, in big, bold black letters across the first page of the Burial Service: Requiem Mass for St. Jacques le Juste, 3 February 2010.

Then I took that tattered, well-traveled, falling apart, incredibly well-used prayerbook, which I have had for 18 years and which has traveled with me all over the world, and I retired it. I placed it in a box with the service bulletin for the Mass, and stored it away. It will be kept in a safe place, remembered and honored as my friends are remembered and honored. The entry for my parishioners, for my friends, for my people, is the last one I will make in it. It is one small way I can honor my people.

Out of the depths I have cried, and am crying, and will continue to cry …

My people will not be forgotten. Their names live on generation after generation, in my heart and in God’s.

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Requiem for St. Jacques le Juste

On Wednesday, I said a Requiem Mass for 14 of my parishioners at St. Jacques le Juste in Petion Ville, Haiti, who died in the earthquake on 12 January. I still don’t know who they are; I know only that 14 people, with whom I celebrated the Eucharist and life every week, are gone. I have been living with this painful unknowing for more than a week now, ever since I learned of their deaths. I have been living with the grief of not knowing the fate of more than 125 other friends. Are they alive? Did they survive? Are they injured, lost, alone? The unknown is frightful place to be, and it is where I, and so very many others, have lived for three long weeks now.

When a dear friend, The Rev. Larry Packard, rector of Good Shepherd in Burke, Va., learned about my parishioners’ deaths, he immediately offered me the pulpit and table. “You need this,” he said. “You need to do a Requiem for your parishioners, even if you don’t know who they are.” I accepted, with a trembling heart. We planned it for Wednesday, at the regular noonday service. I knew about it all week. I knew I needed to put together the service, to choose the hymns and the lessons, to prepare a sermon.

But every time I thought about it, tears welled in my heart and in my eyes. I wanted to say this Mass. I wanted to honor those who have died. I wanted so very much to be faithful. But the pain of this loss seemed too great. So I would approach it in my heart, then back away, approach again, draw back again … Finally, on Tuesday night, I realized: I couldn’t draw back any more. It was time to enter into the grief fully.

My friend and assistant, Matthew Lukens, helped me choose the readings, the prayers, even the music. I wanted something simple, with readings that addressed the grief, hymns that praised the Lord, prayers that wrapped all of those who died in God’s loving arms. I wanted Isaiah’s comfort “for those who mourn;” Paul’s profound statement of faith that “nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus;” John’s promise of a better dwelling place for my people. I chose hymns we sing in French at St. Jacques le Juste: I come with joy to meet my Lord; Lord of all hopefulness, Lord of all joy; Humbly I adore thee.

Wednesday morning, it snowed in Northern Virginia. For a short time, I thought the service would be canceled, and a part of me drew back and said, “Good,” because I was afraid of this service, afraid of the pain. But then the sun came out and the snow started melting, I knew: We were going to pray for these people, for my people.

Taking my shower, I wept as the water splashed across my face. I begged God for the strength to do this, because even in my fear, I was determined – determined – that my friends, my people, were going to be honored. I may not know for whom I am praying, but God does. And God honors them. Ah, I thought, feeling a small sense of peace …

I changed the first reading to Ecclesiasticus: Let us now sing the praises of famous men … (who) made a name for themselves … Some of them have left behind a name, … but of others there is no memory; … But these also were godly men … their name lives on generation after generation. Even though I don’t know their names, God does, and their names live in God from generation to generation.

Almost as soon as I arrived at Good Shepherd for the service, I began to weep anew. Friends came and stood with me, hugging me quietly, sharing my pain, giving me strength. Standing at the back of the church, vested with a white stole, I sought comfort in the looming Good Shepherd stained-glass mosaic above the altar. This is the parish where I was ordained a priest, where I said my first Eucharist, where I baptized my first child, officiated at my first wedding, buried my first parishioner. At this altar, under this portrait of the loving God, I have found peace in the past, and I sought peace there this morning.

It was not an easy service. The readings pierced my heart, the hymns pierced my soul. I barely was able to read the Gospel; I wept throughout the sermon.

I don’t know, I said, if those we mourn this day are famous … was it Nancy, whose husband founded the symphony orchestra, or Ghislaine, who gave me my first French Bible, so that I could read the Gospel in French on Sundays? Or are those we mourn the little girls who helped me translate We Are Marching In The Light Of God into Creole, and then marched around the church with me, singing at the top of our lungs? I don’t know, I wept, but God does.

Paul got it right, I said. Every single Haitian I know is telling me: Nothing, not even this huge earthquake, can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. The faith is strong in Haiti, I said. I’ve never seen such a committed, joyful, open faith. The people know God has not abandoned them.

Most of my parishioners at St. Jacques are not poor, I said. But most of my friends on the street are. And those who died now have, for the first time in their lives, their own dwelling places, and they are magnificent places indeed. And I know that my friends, I said, are having one hell of a party in heaven right this second, secure in their new homes.

I had to stop numerous times. This wasn’t eloquence; it was, instead, heart-wrenching.  It was a cry from the depths of my soul for all the pain that has descended upon my adopted home of Haiti, for my adopted family there, for my friends, so many of whom are still missing to me, because I cannot locate them, have not heard from them. This was my way of honoring all that pain, of offering it up to God, because this pain is far too great a burden for me to carry alone.

I thanked all those who came to the service and told them: When I return to Haiti, I will celebrate another Requiem for my people there, and I will carry all of you with me in my heart, and at the table in the place where we became family, we will pray for our people, for our family, together. Thank you for being part of this pain.

After the prayers, we did the laying on of hands, Larry and I moving from parishioner to parishioner, saying the prayers over these hurting souls who needed healing for themselves. Afterward, I knelt in the same spot where I was ordained a priest in God’s one holy catholic apostolic church and wept again as all gathered around me to lay hands on and pray over me. At the peace, we all hugged, holding each other close, letting yet more tears fall.

The Eucharist was, I believe, the most intimate I ever have celebrated. I was surrounded by love and could feel the presence of those who, having reached the Omega of this life, have gone on to the Alpha of the rest of their lives. God’s marvelous peace, which indeed passes all understanding, embraced us.

For the past 12 years, ever since I was ordained, I have written the names of those whom I have buried in my Book of Common Prayer. Wednesday, I wrote, in big, bold black letters across the first page of the Burial Service: Requiem Mass for St. Jacques le Juste, 3 February 2010.

Then I took that tattered, well-traveled, falling apart, incredibly well-used prayerbook, which I have had for 18 years and which has traveled with me all over the world, and I retired it. I placed it in a box with the service bulletin for the Mass, and stored it away. It will be kept in a safe place, remembered and honored as my friends are remembered and honored. The entry for my parishioners, for my friends, for my people, is the last one I will make in it. It is one small way I can honor my people.

Out of the depths I have cried, and am crying, and will continue to cry …

My people will not be forgotten. Their names live on generation after generation, in my heart and in God’s.

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Message from Haiti: Mesi anpil

Earlier today, I delivered this message from Bishop Duracin to the 215th Annual Council of the Diocese of Virginia, meeting in Richmond, Va.:

My brothers and sisters in Christ, on behalf of the Bishop of Haiti, the Rt. Rev. Jean Zache Duracin, on behalf of the people of the Episcopal Church of Haiti, and on behalf of the people of Haiti, I say to you this day: Mesi anpil. Thank you very much.

Thank you for your love. Thank you for your prayers. Thank you for your incredible generosity.

You know of the dark night that descended on Haiti more than two weeks ago. You know of our tremendous losses of life, of the ruins of our buildings, of the suffering of our people.

Bishop Duracin, with whom I spoke just this morning, has asked me to tell you this: The darkness that has covered the land of Haiti since Jan. 12 has not and will not overcome the Light of Christ, for the people of Haiti are people of faith, and they know that God has been with them, God is with them and God will be with them until the end of the ages.

In Haiti, we have a proverb: Bondye di ou: Fè pa ou, m’a fè pa ’m. “God says to you: You do your part, I’ll do mine.”

The people of Haiti have always done their part, and they believe, they know, that God has always done God’s. Now your Haitian brothers and sisters in Christ, related to you not by the blood of their birth but by the waters of their baptism, ask you to join them so that together, we can all do our part.

Bishop Duracin asks that first you pray, because Jesus said to pray.

Second, Bishop asks that you pay attention: Please do not let Haiti fall off the front pages of your lives.

Third, he asks that you share from the bounty and beauty of your hearts. He is urging all of us to give generously to and work with Episcopal Relief and Development and with Bishop Johnston’s Bishop’s Relief Fund, because they are working miracles in helping the people of God in Haiti right now. Bishop Duracin and Bishop Johnston are personal friends, and you are asked to support the Bishop’s Fund.

Bishop Duracin also says this: Please do not come to Haiti right now. Please wait until such time when we can use the skill of your hands, the strength of your backs and the sweat of your brows. Please … pray now, prepare now, and come only when we are ready for you so that together, we can build anew the Kingdom of God in Haiti.

This is how we can be faithful to God’s call to us to do our part, so that God can do God’s part.

This is the message that Bishop Duracin asked me to convey this day.

But most of all, Bishop Duracin and all the people of Haiti say to you again:

Mesi anpil.

Thank you very much.

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Our time to mourn

Within a few hours of the earthquake striking Haiti on Jan. 12, I began working on relief efforts, trying first to find Bishop Duracin and our missionaries, and then to help coordinate relief efforts through Episcopal Relief & Development, The Episcopal Church, and The Diocese of Haiti.

Since that dark day, I’ve been working with Haiti partners around the world, gathering information, being in constant contact with people on the ground in Haiti and the Dominican Republic, gathering in friends and strangers alike to help. Everyone has responded magnificently, giving even the tiniest bits of information. People all across this land have received calls from total strangers, who abruptly are asked for help. Everyone we’ve reached out to has helped, and for that we are most grateful. And I’ve been trying to post as much information as possible on this web site, which began as an endeavor to help us speak about mission and has become a way to share information about Haiti.

Yesterday, I went silent on this site. In part it was because there was so much other work to do. But mainly, I needed to take time to grieve. Yesterday morning, I learned that 14 of my parishioners at St. James the Just Episcopal Church in Petion Ville, where I serve and live, had died in the quake. I do not know which of our approximately 100 parishioners died. So I can mourn only in general. Somehow, when it came time to do the updates on the web site, I could not.

I ask your prayers for my friends, my parishioners, for the people I serve in Haiti. We have lost so many, and may never know who they are, or where they are buried. I am still waiting word for about 125 other people, friends who have loved and cared for me, and whom I love and care for. I have received news now of about a dozen of my beloveds, and pray that I will continue to receive more.

Please pray for those who have died, and for their families, and for all who are mourning this day. We have a “big grief” in Haiti right now, and need our time to mourn. We need time to cry, which I did a lot yesterday, several times. We need your comfort and your prayers and your strength, so that we can go on doing the work God has given us to do, to help those in need, our brothers and sisters in Christ, many of whom we cannot find.

I ask your prayers …

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